


The Judgement of Thom Rainier

by officialvarrictethras



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Inquisition spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 02:35:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3273569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officialvarrictethras/pseuds/officialvarrictethras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Didn't care for the way Blackwall's judgement/romance scene carried out, so I fixed it.  Contains smut and spoilers for Blackwall's romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Judgement of Thom Rainier

The news of Blackwall’s true identity takes everyone by surprise, but none so much as Rosalyn. No one speaks of his betrayal, of his lie, and no one has seen the Inquisitor look quite so…  _fierce_ as she makes her way through the streets of Val Royeaux. Not even in battle does she look as frightening. When the others, good intentions and all, try to follow her through the door to the prison, she makes them wait. Varric opens his mouth to protest, but she silences him with a look. No, this was  _personal_ , private, and she would not allow others to see it. Anxiety clawing hungrily at her belly, Rosalyn slips into the prison.

She hears his story, unflinching, impassive, even when he shouts; her expression carefully crafted to give exactly nothing away. On the inside, however, indecision  _eats_ at her consciousness. Should she feel anger? Sorrow? Disgust? A thousand and one different emotions bubble and roil inside her conflicted mind, never settling in one place for long, like a cauldron at full boil.

Eventually, she has heard enough, and she departs without so much as a goodbye. As she walks away, she can feel his eyes follow her, can practically sense the heat behind his gaze boring into her shoulders. Quietly, discreetly, they arrange for his release. She almost wishes she could see the look on his face when he is led not to a noose, but to Inquisition forces.

Hands bound in chains, he’s brought before the throne. He doesn’t resist the guards pull as he’s lead to her. Hunched and broken, the man formerly known as Blackwall cannot bear to look his former lover in the eye, and she isn’t sure whether to be relieved or hurt. Back straight despite the sick feeling twisting her gut, Rosalyn only half-listens to Josephine’s announcement. The entire time, he’s lied to her. Let her believe him to be something he is not. Made her look a fool for ever trusting his words. Even when they had lain together, his lips claiming hers like a prize, his hands robust and strong and sure and —

No. Thinking like that would only make this more difficult.

“I didn’t think this would be easy, but it’s harder than I thought,” says the dwarf, her throat constricting painfully around her words, cracking them like dried twigs. Rainier’s brow furrows.

“Another thing to regret,” he mutters under his breath. Finally, slowly, he raises his head and fixes her with those stormy gray-blue eyes, sorrowful — like a hound dog that’s been kicked too many times. His face remains deceptively impassive, even to his own fate, save for those sad eyes that make her ache. “What did you have to do to release me?”

“Josephine called in a few favors,” replies the Inquisitor, vaguely.

“And what happens to the reputation the ambassador has so carefully cultivated?”

Rosalyn bristles slightly in her throne at the implication, her fingers curling into small fists on the arms. The sadness in her stomach replaced at once by white-hot  _anger_ , she sits forward. “Once the world is back to normal, no one will remember this,” she says, in a clipped, strained voice.

“ _I’ll_  remember,” he says fiercely, grimacing up at her. “I accepted my punishment. I was ready for all this to end.” Something in his expression breaks, cracks, and for a second or two, it looks as if there are tears in his eyes. Rosalyn’s fury wavers for a brief instant. “Why would you stop it? What becomes of me now?”

For a long moment, they stare at one another wordlessly, and the rest of the world seems to fall away. There is only the two of them. Rosalyn’s fists slowly unfurl as the anger drains from her, leaving her weary and wrung out like a washcloth. Liar though he is, she cannot deny her love for him, even now. Traitorous heart like thunder behind her ribs, the Inquisitor sits up a little straighter in her throne, raising her chin proudly. Rainier can already feel the headsman’s cold steel upon his neck —

“Release him,” she says. And though she speaks them softly, the words seem to echo through the chamber. The faces obscured by masks are startled, the painted fabric across their eyes is not enough to obscure their shock. Everything seems to go still.

Hands yanked towards the guard with the key, Rainier stares, his storm-gray eyes searching hers. “It cannot be as simple as that,” he says quietly, gaping at her in disbelief.

The Inquisitor slowly shakes her head, frowning. “It isn’t. You’re free to atone as the man you are, not the traitor you thought you were, or the Warden you pretended to be.” Her brow furrows into a hard scowl, and Rainier drops his gaze to the stone floor beneath his feet in shame. The chains slowly loosen around his wrists, and eventually fall into the waiting hands of the guardsman. “Return to your post, Rainier.”

The use of his true name stings more than he thought it would. Eyes closing briefly, as if steeling himself for the long walk from the hall, Rainier nods. Without meeting her gaze, he turns on his heel.

The crowd parts, and he exits the hall without a backward glance.

Slumping into her chair when Rainier’s silhouette disappears down the steps, Rosalyn runs her fingers through her curly hair, suddenly boneless and emotionally robbed. Josephine approaches her throne cautiously, offering comfort, and Rosalyn has never felt more grateful for the Antivan’s companionship. Pushing herself to her feet, her stomach twisting and aching with uncertainty, she follows Josephine to her study, and the pair of them spend the afternoon sharing tea spiced with a nip of bourbon. By the time night falls, she leaves Josephine’s office with a muddled, light head and even lighter feet.

Bidding a good night to Varric by the fire, who alone remains in the hall, Rosie descends the staircase into the cool night air, and when she arrives at the landing in the courtyard, she stands rooted by indecision. The tavern? Too many questions, too many prying eyes, staring, judging. No. Not even Cole would be good company now. Perhaps a walk around the battlements, clear her head? Even her most loyal guardsmen on the wall whisper and point behind her back now. She sways tipsily on her feet, staring at the ground. Only one name comes to mind — a lie, a deceit that stings even now, but a name nonetheless.

Without realizing where, her feet begin moving of seemingly their own accord down the familiar path to the stables, to  _him._  And there he is, standing before the fire and staring into the crackling flames as always. As if none of this has happened. Suddenly the anger she felt earlier rises to the surface once more, burning the back of her throat like bile, and she storms into the stable.

“You.”

Rainier turns to face her, his expression solemn. “Rosie, I —”

“Don’t you  _dare!_ ” hisses Rosalyn venomously, cutting across him, and poking him  _hard_  in the chest with her index finger. “You  _lied_  to me! The whole time, all of it was a  _lie_ , and I actually — argh!” With all her considerable strength, the Inquisitor plants both her palms against his chest and shoves him. He barely stumbles back, and this seems only to fuel her rage. There are tears in her eyes now, but she wipes them away furiously with the back of her hand. Rainier cannot bear to look at her. “I was so afraid,” says Rosalyn, voice cracked and broken, matching the anguished look on her face. “I was going to  _lose_  you to the Calling, to the damned Blight, and all this time, you —” Her voice peters out, choked by the painful lump of tears bubbling up in her throat.

“I lied about who I was,” says Rainier quietly, voice  _raw_ , when it becomes clear that she cannot go on. “But I never lied about what I felt. Rosie, I-I can’t take it back.. I can’t take back the hurt I inflicted on you, and Maker knows I deserve worse than death for it.” He moves a step closer.

Shaking from head to toe, Rosalyn takes a few steps back to match the ones that he makes and more, widening the gap between them until her backside bumps into the table holding the incomplete griffon rocking horse. She will not look at him, but… Ancestors be damned, but she still loves him. Unbidden, she remembers the night they shared in the hayloft, the look in his eyes, the tenderness of his voice, the way his hands and lips mold to fit against her body, and she chokes back a sob. Rainier stands several feet away, unmoving. His voice makes her heart  _ache_  with sorrow when he speaks again.

“No matter what I was or what becomes of me, right now, I am just a man with his heart laid bare. I leave it in your hands.”

Silence falls thick and heavy between them, pregnant with chance and hurt and daresay,  _hope_. Rosalyn swallows, trying to squash the painful lump that has wedged itself in her throat. “Ah, but there’s the rub,” she says with a mirthless little laugh, when she finally can speak again. Her gaze meets his evenly, a constellation of tears clinging to her lashes. “I don’t know if I can trust your words anymore,  _Rainier_.”

The emphasis on his true name seems to hit him like a slap to the face. He stiffens, jaw clenched tight, before looking away. More silence, stretching, _bleeding_  into several minutes that feel like an eternity. She can almost hear their hearts dying in tandem. But she can’t pretend any longer. No more dancing, no more  _lies._  It’s time to set the record straight, once and for all.

Suddenly, her fingers fist in his beard, and she sharply tugs his face down to her level. Eyes pained, brows knit together with sorrow, he stares at her, confused. “So you’d better  _prove_ them to me, then,” whispers the Inquisitor fiercely, and claims his lips in a scorching kiss, robbing him of his breath, and her of her faculties. In that moment, he isn’t Blackwall, he isn’t Rainier — only a nameless blaze of love and affection that burns her to her marrow. Hiccuping sobs quietly against his mouth, Rosalyn draws him closer,  _closer_ , and closer still, her hands tangling in his black hair as her arms wind around his neck. His powerful arm coils around her waist, hoisting her off her feet and sliding her safely onto the table.

The rocking chair falls to the ground, forgotten, knocked aside in their fervor.

Rainier — no,  _Blackwall —_  kisses her with ferocity and desperation, like a man possessed, intent upon not atoning for his sins, but for showing her how much he loves her the only way he can. A rugged hand, lined with calluses, hastily yanks loose the laces of her trousers, and his mouth moves to her neck, nipping, sucking, using his knowledge of her body to unlock its secrets. A moan escapes her, answered by a pleased growl rumbling in her ear. Her name, whispered like a reverent prayer, sends shivers down her spine, and warmth blossoms from the tips of her toes to the ends of her fingers. Rough fingertips pop open the toggles of her tunic, exposing warm brown skin that melts seamlessly into the column of her neck, and his hand slips inside to caress a breast. As she writhes in ecstasy, he watches her with hungry, half-lidded eyes.

Arching into his palm, Rosalyn clings to the sleeves of his coat, smothering her moans with his neck as he works her into a frenzy. Gasps of pleasure escape her as he frees a breast from her tunic, his mouth closing onto the stiffened peak and sucking ravenously. A horse in its stall whinnies, startled at her sudden cry, but neither of them notice or care. Her skin feels as if it is on  _fire,_  sparks of pleasure and ecstasy exploding beneath it. Too impatient for full nudity, Blackwall yanks her trousers open, practically unseating her in his vigor, and pulls them down to her knees.

“Blackwall,” gasps Rosalyn, as his hand finds her waiting sex, teasing the soft slickness there with a few strokes of his fingertips. Quavering like a leaf in a strong breeze, the Inquisitor arches her back, digging her fingertips into his shoulders, searching desperately for purchase.

“Ah, I love you, lass,” whispers the warrior into her ear, a roughened quality to the words that make her heart skip a precious beat.

She means to respond, lips parted to speak the words, but he silences her with his mouth, kissing her breathless, until she trembles, until she gasps and pants and fists her fingers in his hair. Helpless beneath his onslaught, Rosalyn can only hold onto him for dear life as he strokes, slow, maddening circles into her flesh, delving a finger inside, and then another. His name,  _Blackwall, yes, please, **Blackwall** , _cascades unhindered from her lips, a neverending song of praise to his talented fingers and wondrous lips and scorching love. His palm and her hips rock inelegantly against one another, but the time for finesse will come later.

Wordlessly, the warrior presses his warm,  _perfect_  lips to her neck, trailing soft yet searing kisses down her flushed skin, pausing to pull her plump nipple into his mouth once again. He chuckles against her skin when she smothers a yell too late. The horses in the stall make their displeasure known.

Blackwall’s mouth continues to meander south for a time, his hands free the other breast from its prison. The calluses of his hands catch on her sensitive skin and she sees stars, can no longer breathe.. Soon, he’s kneeling before her, gazed fixed on her face. Mind befuddled with drink and lust, Rosalyn can only watch with glassy eyes as he parts her thighs as far as the trousers will allow, leans his bearded face into taste her with the broad flat of his tongue. Gasping sharply, Rosie’s hand blindly seizes the back of his head, fingernails scraping his scalp as her fingers twist in his hair.

He groans into her, the reverberations delicious and sweet and  _oh,_  just right, and she crumples backward onto the table, clinging to his hair — her salvation against floating away. Now, the only sound louder than her is the horses in their stalls as they pace and snort. Thick fingers holding too tightly onto her hips, kneading into the brown skin and leaving white stripes amongst the freckles, Blackwall brings her to completion, the scrape of his facial hair an exquisite and stark juxtaposition against the soft, wet warmth of his mouth. Twice he works her up and up, and twice she falls, until she is breathless and boneless upon the table, half-dressed and entirely satisfied.

Blackwall slowly rises to his feet, gently pulling her into a sitting position. When his lips find hers, molding against hers and fitting perfectly between them, the taste of herself is still fresh upon him, sweet and lingering. Surreptitiously adjusting her clothing, Rosie mumbles what might’ve been his name under her breath. So tired now, and he is  _so_ warm, smelling of flame and whiskey and hay. Folding herself into his chest, Rosalyn closes her eyes, and the world goes dark.

Morning finds her in her bed, with a throbbing head and no recollection of how she got there. Groaning, she sits up with a hand cradling her forehead, blinking at the bright sunlight that floods her chambers. Vague, muddled memories of the night before come back to her slowly, swimming through the fog in her hungover brain, struggling to surface.

Suddenly, a pair of strong arms coil around her waist, and she jumps in shock.

Hair mussed and beard disheveled, the old warrior rubs his eye with his fist, yawning. “Where are you going?” asks Blackwall in a voice rough and weak from sleep. A gentle smile up at her curves his mouth, and then fear slowly creeps into his eyes. The smile wavers. “…Should I go? You… last night you begged me to stay, I —”

Rosie’s finger presses to his lips, silencing him. Leaning down until their noses are inches apart, she allows herself a smile. “Stay,” commands the Inquisitor, before laying claim to his mouth with her own.

And he does.

 


End file.
